


Unbending, Unbroken

by theaspiringcynic



Series: Pretentious Snek Related Title [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Gen, Gift Fic, Or Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:48:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29693193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theaspiringcynic/pseuds/theaspiringcynic
Summary: Padma blinks and finds herself in a story that isn’t hers.
Series: Pretentious Snek Related Title [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1882468
Comments: 3
Kudos: 3





	Unbending, Unbroken

**Author's Note:**

  * For [susabei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/susabei/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Serpentine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16194791) by [susabei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/susabei/pseuds/susabei). 



> happy birthday moni!!! sorry i forgot to post this earlier lol

It’s disorienting to find yourself in a place you weren’t expecting when opening your eyes. Even more so when what is presented before you is, well, _nearly_ impossible—(Padma would simply use the word impossible if it hadn’t been for the fact that this was _actually_ happening)—considering that she’s on a rowboat in the middle of the Black Lake headed to what only be Hogwarts and back in her eleven-year-old body. 

She nearly thinks she’s just enveloped in a memory of some sort if it hadn’t been for one **glaring** mistake—Parvati is not in the boat. In fact, she can’t feel her sister’s magic _anywhere_ in the immediate vicinity (and her range is especially wide when it comes to finding her twin). Panic sours her stomach.

She pinches herself three times, silently lamenting when nothing changes. It appears that perhaps this isn’t a nightmare like she is so desperately wishing.

There is a silver lining as small and thin as it is. She finds her wand in the pocket of the school robes that she’s wearing as she follows the other students into the castle. She recognizes it immediately as _her_ wand. It’s the same eleven inches of walnut wrapped around the heartstring of a very ornery Hebridean Black that she’s used for the past—her mind is suddenly filled with static and painful prickles when she tries to remember how long. Her fingers fly up to her temples as she begins to massage her head. 

It hurts the harder she tries to remember. _Well then,_ **_that_ ** _certainly can’t bode well._

Dumbledore is the one who greets them at the entrance to the Great Hall. His auburn beard and mostly unlined face is enough to make her wand hand twitch in apparent shock. Her face is pale as she takes a longer look at the school robes everyone is wearing, recognizing they’re a more conservative and old-fashioned cut. The fact that everyone is wearing a hat is another tip considering that had _long_ gone out of fashion by the time she was finishing up her schooling. Thankfully, in the sea of young nervous faces, hers doesn’t stick out much as she follows the crowd in a subdued manner.

Definitely _not_ her memory, but perhaps someone else’s?

There is a bit of a relief when she’s sorted into Ravenclaw once again, though she notes how casually Dumbledore states her name as though there were nothing out of the ordinary for her to be there. As though her name was _always_ on the list to be called. It’s more unsettling than finding herself in a younger body.

She sits once again at the familiar table but this time completely surrounded by strangers. Well not _completely_ , some of the students look similar to ones she remembers vaguely in her head but the harder she concentrates on the images the stronger the pain in her temple.

So Padma sits there, idly swinging her too-short legs on the bench as she contemplates this new (reality?) situation that she finds herself in. Dumbledore’s voice and the Sorting Hat’s occasional shouting fades to the background of her thoughts as her mind spins and whirls over possibilities and theories.

It’s only when Dumbledore calls a certain name that her head jerks up at attention. She _knows_ that name—she’s read it somewhere in a book that she can’t remember reading without her head feeling like it was going to be cracked open by an invisible hammer—and she watches as a pale, sickly little boy walks up to the stool. 

She _knows_ him.

Her eyes narrow in two-thirds contemplation and one-third loathing.

And, more importantly, she knows what he will _do_.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Classes are boring. 

Mostly because while she inhabits the body of an eleven-year-old, she does not possess the mind of one—she can do these spells half asleep and gagged—and she has very little motivation to actually _stand out_ amongst her peers. 

She’s quiet in class; neglecting to raise her hand and only turns in work about two-thirds of the time—just enough to get by, really. Grades aren’t of much importance to her at the moment, not when she can vaguely remember graduating alongside Parvati _years_ into the future.

Another thread to the silver lining is _her_.

She finds her in the library which is altogether unsurprising considering the fact that they share neither a house nor are even in the same cohort, but that doesn’t stop the rush of realization when she recognizes the witch sitting quietly at a table surrounded by partially opened books as she writes within the margins.

_Ximena_ , Padma’s mind helpfully supplies as she stares at the way the other witch’s curls stick out from underneath the brim of her hat.

Padma’s grip on the strap of her book bag tightens. For a moment, she’s frozen in place as she wonders whether she should approach. She knows for a fact that she’s not supposed to be here—that going to the table might break whatever plot that she has stored in her head—and yet as she gazes upon the older witch, she can’t help but want to push those doubts away.

_Would it really be so bad if they became friends?_

Padma feels as though she’s known the witch for half a lifetime already.

_Don’t be a coward_. Padma thinks that’s Parvati’s voice sounding in her head. Parvati had always been the braver of the two— _reckless_ as Padma liked to tease her—and she finds herself bolstered at the thought.

“Excuse me.” It’s still weird to hear her younger voice ring out. It sounds high-pitched and naive. She doesn’t like it. “May I sit here?”

Ximena’s eyes are pitch-black as she glances up from her reading. Padma swallows but she meets her gaze evenly as the other witch nods her assent.

So Padma sits, her deliberately slow movements hiding the quick pace of her pulse as she gently places the books—(mostly philosophy considering that she needs a better understanding of _what_ reality is before contemplating _how_ this one came to be)—upon the table.

“Thanks.” She takes out a sheath of parchment and a bottle of ink. “I’m Padma, by the way. Padma Patil.” She smiles.

There is a brief pause before the witch responds. “Ximena.”

_I know_. Padma thinks. _I know_.

* * *

Ximena is an ideal tablemate in that she doesn’t ever ask Padma why she’s never studying. Rather than the usual subjects, Padma’s side of the table is filled with obscure tomes full of metaphysics, epistemology and a dash of mythology. One afternoon, she just read both books of Alice in Wonderland while taking copious notes.

But it’s a companionable silence, Padma knows even when they don’t really exchange many words or even pleasantries. She’s still not sure what will happen if she changes what she knows will happen so she proceeds cautiously but stubbornly.

But of course all good things eventually come to an end. 

She arrives late to the library that afternoon, annoyed that she still has to take flying lessons when it merely serves as _another_ waste of time. She turns the corner to where Ximena and she typically sit to find that her usual space is occupied by someone else. That alone isn’t really much cause of concern except, of course, that it’s _him_.

“ _He-men-ah?_ ” She overhears him repeat. She knows this was bound to happen but she’s still slightly irritated nonetheless. Padma drops her books rather carelessly on the table’s surface, nonverbally announcing her arrival.

She knows her dislike of Riddle is a bit unfair to him. They’ve scarcely been at Hogwarts for a week—the young Slytherin hasn’t even done _anything_ to warrant her outright animosity—so she curbs her temper. _He’s only eleven_ , she repeats to herself.

If Riddle is annoyed at her intrusion, he hides it rather well after allowing a moment’s worth of confusion to flicker on his face. He introduces himself pleasantly enough though she notices how he doesn’t extend a hand to her. She wonders if he’s merely being petty because she interrupted him or if she’s just thinking deeper than necessary.

Her response is cordial, barely, more aloof than anything before she continues to bury her nose in another ultimately useless tome. Riddle, thankfully, says nothing further to her.

* * *

He follows Ximena everywhere or rather as much as he can, Padma observes. It’d almost be cute like having a duckling toddle after you if said ducks were capable of theft and dark magic. It’s likely because they look so mismatched, Padma decides; Ximena practically towers over Tom at this age. ~~She ignores the fact that she’s the same height as him, of course.~~

She often sees them dining together at meals while she glances over from the Ravenclaw table and he’s now become a constant at their table in the library. She’s become used to Tom occasionally asking— _needling_ —Ximena about topics as he hungrily gazes at the witch’s notes. He’s still rather careful in front of her, Padma has noticed, but the young are prone to make mistakes.

“Ximena,” he’s rather good at sounding flattering, Padma will give him that, “it says in my potions book that I need nigella seeds, but I can’t find anything useful on them anywhere.”

_It’s strange_ , Padma thinks, _how memories can layer upon each other_. She’s read about this very moment and yet hearing it for herself is another thing entirely. The sort of deja vu that causes you to sink within a reverie not entirely of your own making.

“You won’t find anything useful about them in any English book.” Ximena’s voice floats in her ears. “Try Punjabi.”

“Padma,” Ximena’s voice is soft but it still causes her to look up at the taller witch and causes her to miss Tom’s sharp glare. She’s almost startled by it considering that she’s _not_ supposed to be here—”It’s called kalonji, right?”

Padma hums in agreement, mentally shaking off the sudden uneasiness she feels in her gut. “It’s good for indigestion.”

She meets Tom’s eyes briefly before her gaze quickly flicks away, choosing to rest on the bracelet on Ximena’s wrist. Her grip on her fountain pen tightens.

* * *

Padma stares at herself in the mirror of the loo as she exhales and inhales routinely. Ximena’s invitation to the dueling club had been unexpected and yet she knew with definite certainty that this meeting would be the _one_. Gods knew how much she has thought about this—deliberated and agonized over what should happen if she interfered. She hates to admit that she’s thought about skipping out on the event entirely—(turning a blind eye to Riddle’s theft and simply withdrawing from this because why _should_ she interfere where she still hasn’t found a way home?)—but the thought sits heavy in the back of her head, like a stone sinking further and further.

She leaves the washroom still ruminating even as she crosses the threshold of the Dueling Club quarters, fingers tracing runes over the fabric of her robes as a nervous habit. She’s dueled before—fought before—but never in such a formal setting. Not unless you count the farce that Gilderoy attempted in their second year.

An older Slytherin sitting by Ximena greets her by name, surprisingly, and Padma idly wonders how he’s come to learn it. She’s made a point to be a rather unremarkable student—mostly so others wouldn’t bother digging into a background that doesn’t exist—so being _noticed_ feels jarring. His features are bland, unremarkable—honestly she doubts she could pick him out of a crowd if he sat next to his housemates at the Slytherin table. _Avery?_ Her mind tentatively suggests. “Nervous?”

If Padma had the energy she’d snort. She’s dueled before—technically fought on the frontlines of a war—why _ever_ would she be nervous of a schoolyard duel— 

“A bit,” she forces herself to respond. Her voice is low as she grits her teeth. Truthfully she’s not looking forward to this considering how this younger body is still so sensitive to magic. She remembers getting headaches in her younger days, the constant thrum of so many discordant magical signatures was and still is overwhelming. As she became older, however, she managed to build up a sort of tolerance to it so to speak. Coping with it or rather removing herself entirely when the situation called for it.

She smiles when Ximena moves over to give her a space to sit next to her. Padma sits stiffly, idly listening to Avery talk to Ximena and coincidentally also Tom.

“Don’t worry, Riddle here knows that one in hand is worth two in the bush.”

Padma snorts _loudly_.

Avery pauses, nearly guffawing. “Something to add, Patil?” 

Padma stares ahead at the two sixth years dueling, mentally making notes as she watches their stances. Harry would have mentioned something about their posture—they held themselves too stiffly but that would slowly be worn away and sharpened by experience. Willow’s far better trained at dueling than Harry ever was but she finds herself reminiscing about D.A. meetings nonetheless. She frowns slightly.

“Hunger makes even poison sweet—greed makes everything gilded.” Padma feels a slight tremor in her wand hand. “Paraphrasing, of course, a plain English translation of Ahiqar doesn’t quite ring the same way.”

Avery chuckles after a long pause before muttering, “ _Falcons_.”

The duel ends in a frustrating draw. Padma can feel the nervousness emanating from Ximena when Willows calls the older the witch to duel. She touches Ximena’s sleeve gently, carefully unsure what words to say but still wanting to reassure her nonetheless. She ends up tracing a rune on Ximena’s sleeve—more to comfort than any practical application of magic.

Acwellan is weirdly quiet as Padma watches the two on the platform. She’s seen glimpses of the witch in potions (though she’s actually heard her first, Acwellan’s cursing was the stuff of legend).

The chunks of jagged stone flying around bring more memories. Padma grips the fabric of her robes tightly, eyes not missing a single beat but she’s not watching the duel per se, rather she’s staring at something far more important.

* * *

She didn’t mean to step on his hand, honestly. Padma at least insists that it wasn’t a conscious decision on her part, rather she saw Tom reach for the bracelet which had fallen to the ground and just _reacted_. Her sole was on the back of his hand before she even fully registered what she was doing.

His eyes are ice shards as he glares at her. Frozen vitriol and glittering fury. “You’re dead, Patil.” He states through gritted teeth—his frank, wrath-hungering face is the most honest she’s ever seen. Tragic how it took catching him red-handed to finally see what lurked underneath that façade he’s scrubbed so clean.

Nonplussed and unhurried, Padma responds, “Probably. I’m still not entirely sure if this is just a hallucination I’m experiencing as my soul prepares to leave my body.” Her readings have shown her that death inadvertently _opens_ as many doors as it closes.

Her response thoroughly baffles him and in his confusion, Padma steps off his hand as she clutches Ximena’s bracelet. She can feel the magic threaded into it and it makes her skin crawl. Not necessarily malevolent but more than enough to warn her—to let her know that this is **not** for her.

“Good eye, Tommy,” she dryly praises. She hopes the mark on his hand lingers so he remembers to keep his hands to what's his. “I’m sure Ximena would have missed this dearly. It’s rather good luck that she has the both of us as friends, isn’t it?”

She grins, dimples prominent, as he bares his teeth.


End file.
